I’m out of place here.

The mouse-faced man knows. Forever hunched and wringing his hands, he peers over his computer monitor with beady eyes, always watching, watching, watching. I feel him looking through me, asking me why I’m in his line of sight. Even just sitting here, I’m a bother to him. Every sneaked glance is an affirmation - “You don’t belong here.” He doesn’t think I see him staring, but I know. I know that he knows, and that he’s watching.

I wonder if he’s like that at home too – if he peeks at his mousey wife and mousey kids over the edge of his tilted bowl as he sips the last drops of soup. I’m not sure what type of soup (whatever kind that mice like to drink). I wonder if, after meals, he has crumbs he doesn’t know about stuck to his face (I can’t imagine him not).

Crumbs or not, I know one thing for sure. He is always watching, sneaking, affirming. “You don’t belong here.”